


Tin Can At My Feet

by Anonymous



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, As well as the backs of others, Five complete stories under a theme, Gen, Having each others' backs, Musketeers being awesome, Some angst, Various injuries included
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1793893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for the request for acts of kindness from our Musketeers.</p><p>1.  Athos and the broken windows (Athos POV)<br/>2.  Aramis and a nighttime battlefield (Porthos POV)<br/>3.  Porthos and the boy at the gate (Aramis POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken Windows and Empty Hallways

**Author's Note:**

> A prompter asked for this:
> 
> "Restore my faith in humanity. Have our musketeers be kind to strangers. Not to little cute orphans, pretty ladies or fluffy kittens, but to your average undeserving stranger."
> 
> Hopefully, this at least partially fits the bill. It will consist of five complete short stories.
> 
> Though I'm not prone to "song" fics, the combination of stumbling across this prompt while listening to a cover of Randy Newman's "I think it's going to rain today" made this happen.

<><><><><><><><><><><>

_Broken Windows and Empty Hallways_

**< ><><><><><><><><><><>**

Making his way down the street towards the garrison, Athos ducked his head to the side instinctively at the sound of shattering glass above him. Even so, he felt it as a few stray shards toppled onto his hair, responding with hiss when one sharp edge sliced a line through the skin in front of his ear before continuing its decent to the ground.

"Stupid... reckless children!" he heard Aramis shout. 

Looking up from where he'd bent himself over with a hand clasped to the bloody cut, Athos was just in time to see a group of laughing boys dash away down an alley beyond the crowded street.   A bent old woman stood on the same stoop as the window's residence, hollering and waving a broom at them as they fled.

Darting out his free hand to fist in the back of Aramis's collar, Athos yanked him back.  "Let them go," he insisted.  "You'll not catch them now, and a Musketeer running full bore down the street after small children will do nothing for our reputation." 

Aramis growled darkly, but allowed Athos to restrain him, breathing deeply before breaking the grip on his collar and turning to bring his face about. "They did it on purpose," he said, gesturing at the window overhead.  "Two slingshots, poorly aimed.  We're lucky they didn't hit you with their stones directly."

"Or you," Athos returned wryly, leaning back as Aramis tried to remove his hand from the bloody cut at the side of his head.

"Let me see."

"In a moment," Athos resisted, pulling away and approaching the woman on the stoop.  She was shaking, still clutching the broom in her hand.  "Madame?" he questioned with a slight bow. "Trouble?"

She glanced at him, eyes angry and puffed.  "I'm not a witch!" she hissed, brandishing her broom. "And I'll not be treated as such by you anymore than I'll take it from those... demons.  Those... children!"

Athos smiled softly.  "Why of course not," he said gently.  "I cannot imagine, in any case, how such a thing could be believed. How came you to face such an erroneous accusation?"  He kept his face calm and after a drawn pause, saw the tension go out of her.

He felt the same from the hand on his shoulder -- Aramis standing ever near -- as the tension went out of him also.

"It is because of my Rémy," the woman said steadily, voice ringing just a touch less ferociously.

"Your son, I presume?"

Biting her lip, she swallowed.  "My grandson. Dead, two years now. The last of... the last of all my family.  The grippe stole him, but they say I put a curse on him.  They say I put the curse on all of them."  She looked up at the broken window wearily.  "It was my last window on that side that hadn't been put to shatters."

Athos could see where slats of wood had been crudely slotted along the openings. He glanced at Aramis, and then bowed again.  "Allow us the honor, at least, of sweeping up the glass for you?" 

Standing stiffly, with water suddenly peaking into her eyes, the woman shook her head.  "I've a good broom, even if that's all that's left to me -- 'sides, they'll only return for more."  She turned then, retreating beyond the open door.  "They'll only return," she mumbled, shutting it behind her firmly.

<>

An afternoon of searching, procuring, negotiating, and four of Aramis's stitches later, Athos stood once more on the woman's stoop. With a steady stance and a glance at his companions, he knocked firmly and waited.

The hesitancy of approaching footsteps spoke of habit and of the long stretch of time to have become accustomed to the need for such.

“Madame,” he said with a bow, speaking quickly and holding out a scroll of paper before she had the chance to close the door again.  “We’ve come to make repairs, by order of the king.”

It was the last part that stopped her.  She froze, blinking at him in confusion.  Eyes twitching, she stared towards Aramis, Porthos, the subdued boys behind them, and then snapped her gaze back to Athos. “By order of…”

“The king,” he repeated, extending the scroll of paper. “Having been made aware, by his own Musketeers, of your contributions in seeking order within the neighborhood surrounding his Musketeer’s own garrison, and recognizing you as a valued member of his constituency, he has provided for repairs to your home, and has ordered us, along with these boys here, to see to said repairs at once.”

Seemingly at a loss for words, her mouth hung open and her chest fluttered. “The king…” she whispered, touching the paper with her fingers and then drawing it towards herself as she read. “I’ll not… I’ll not be mocked.”

“No indeed,” said Athos, sweeping off his hat and nodding to the paper. “For as you can see, such a thing would bring dire consequences for anyone who dared it.  The king places great value on the trusted friends of his Musketeers.”  He directed a simple but serious glance towards the boys standing with him. “Any found to be harassing such would be considered an enemy to France.”

Her wide eyes stared at him, slowly taking in his words as the fullness of the situation dawned on her.

“May we,” he asked, indicating the space beyond her, inside her home. “I give you my word, you will experience only the behavior of the finest gentlemen once we cross your threshold.”

Slowly, slowly, the tension began to leak from her face and muscles.

Timidly, one of the boys spoke.  “We are sorry, Madame.  We did not realize… We thought…”

“She knows what you thought,” interrupted Athos, but his words were more gentle than sharp.

“We are sorry,” the boy repeated.  “We will not dishonor you, nor the king, again. We have given the Musketeers our word.”

Athos smiled.  And, when he did, almost it seemed as though the woman wanted to smile back, but couldn’t quite manage, or had forgotten how.

“Yes, well…” she stuttered, then paused, swallowing carefully. “Yes,” she simply repeated, finally and ultimately opening the door wide enough to allow them access.

As the boys filed in past her, followed by Porthos and Aramis, and then d’Artagnan who was busy leveraging a cart full of the materials they needed, she laid her hand across Athos’s arm and stopped him.

“Thank you, Monsieur.  You have no idea what… Thank you.”

He returned the words with the simple bow of his head, feeling the slight diminishment of the lump that had formed in his throat the moment the glass of her window had shattered above him.

An estate with empty halls and broken windows was his fate. Never, he thought, should it be anyone else’s.  

<><><><><><><>

tbc


	2. A Pale Dead Moon in a Sky Streaked with Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for possible upsetting circumstances in the aftermath of battle.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

_A Pale Dead Moon in a Sky Streaked with Grey_

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

In the distance, a moan fluttered through the darkness.

Again.

Porthos felt himself hiss in response—a breathy hitch originating somewhere within the depths of his chest and sliding silently through his teeth. Flexing his ribs around the next inhalation, he shoved the sound to the back of his mind and focused on the pain directly in front of him.

Securing d’Artagnan’s upper body more firmly against his knees, he swallowed while carding a hand through the youth’s dark hair.  “You’re doing just fine,” he reassured as d’Artagnan blinked up at him with panged eyes.  “It won’t be much longer now.  Then you can rest.” He flattened his large hand warmly over d’Artagnan’s brow.  “Aramis has got the stitching almost done.  Haven’t you, Aramis?” he prompted, but when he looked up, Aramis was staring into the dark, bloody fingers poised motionlessly over the sewn gash on d’Artagnan’s thigh.

“Aramis,” he repeated, sliding his eyes to lock briefly with Athos’s over the pale flicker of their tiny fire.

Leveraging himself up onto his elbows in defiance of his own recently dressed wounds, Athos joined in with the command of his voice. “ _Ara_ mis.”

With a stumble in his chest, as though he’d only just remembered how to breathe, Aramis rolled his face forward, blinking distractedly at Athos before bending back over his work.  “Yes, he’ll be fine,” he said steadily, avoiding eye contact with any of them while tying off the last stitch.  “I’ve nearly finished.”

Deftly, he began the careful task of rolling woven cloth over the wound while giving their youngest a dull smile.  “You’ll be fine,” he murmured gently, then seemed to realize how weak he sounded and focused himself further, the guise of untroubled calm marking his face. “You’ll be just fine, d’Artagnan. Rest now.”

Porthos wasn’t fooled.  He traded a glance with Athos, who wasn’t fooled either. 

“Aramis,” said Athos, voice low.  “There is nothing you can do.  Even if you did not have your own injuries yet to be tended to, there would be _nothing_ you could do. Not tonight.  Not in the dark.”

Aramis’s lips parted, but before he could say anything, the moan in the darkness rose up anew, rolling out to them from beneath the shifting shadows on the makeshift battlefield.  The pale moonlight wavered, deadened by the haze of weakly drifting clouds.

Porthos held his breath as the moan died away.

In the silence, Aramis waved a hand absently, though his eyes stayed fixated on the darkness.  “I am hardly wounded at all,” he murmured, as though by rote. 

Athos moved himself from his elbows to his hands, sitting up higher with a pained grunt.  “Aramis, look at me. _Look_ at me.”

Two too-long seconds passed, but, finally, Aramis looked.

“There is _nothing_ you can do,” Athos repeated.  “We don’t know what may remain for us out there, nor what weapons that man might still have the faculties to wield.  And it is too dark besides. What you are considering is too risky.”

“I’m considering nothing,” Aramis denied.

“Indeed,” said Athos, no inflection.

The corners of Aramis’s eyes wrinkled worriedly, the same way they did when he was in pain and trying not to show it.  Looking back at Athos, he faltered.  “Those that survived of his comrades fled when it became apparent the tide of battle was turning in our favor,” he said. “That man out there went down in the darkness, and they left him.  We kill our enemy in battle, Athos, we do not leave them to linger.”

“Even so.”  The line of Athos’s jaw drew itself harder and sharper in a way that might have made it easy to miss the softness in his eyes.  “You cannot go out there.  It is too dangerous. The remainder of our regiment will return at first light when the secondary attack points have been secured. We will make arrangements for him then. Do you understand?”

On cue, the moan rose up once more, drifting hollowly through the night.

Aramis lowered his head and spoke not at all.

“Athos is right,” whispered d’Artagnan, trying to get his own elbows to leverage up his torso even as Porthos held him down.  “You can’t.  You… can’t.”

“Aramis,” Athos cut in, drawing Aramis’s attention back to him by the sheer command in his bearing.  “ _Tell_ me you understand.”

Chin jerking slightly, Aramis glanced at his surgical kit, then met Athos’s eyes, the hesitation obvious.

“Tell me,” Athos ordered again, giving no quarter.

“I understand,” Aramis whispered, and when Athos continued to stare, he nodded, holding his leader’s gaze.  “I understand.”  The moment dragged long, too long, before Athos collapsed himself back onto the ground, muscles unstrung, almost as though he might actually believe him. As though by his word Aramis would suddenly be able to abide the thought of soldiers left behind.

Porthos wasn’t so certain. 

When it needed doing, ruthless was what Aramis could be. It was not, nor had it ever been, what he was.

<> 

In silence, Porthos prodded at the dark bruising down the left side of Aramis’s body -- finding nothing broken, as he’d said—then did his best to help Aramis strip d’Artagnan’s blood from his fingers—an unholy and difficult task.

“You should rest,” he said when they’d finished, sitting back on his haunches after feeding a few more tiny sticks to the fire.  “I’m well enough.  I’ll keep watch.”

When Aramis said nothing, Porthos flicked his eyes over the camp. D’Artagnan was asleep. Athos wasn’t.  His eyes pained but open as he stretched in the grass with his cape rolled under his head, watching them.

Aramis sat for a moment with his hands pushed up into his hair. Motionless.  Porthos let him be, and after a time Aramis folded his surgery kit closed, setting it within reach upon a stone before easing back onto his own cloak and rolling his face towards the night and the stillness.

Pressing a palm to his own aching head, Porthos waited a breath, and listened, ribs tight with anticipation.

The moan didn’t come.

He couldn’t decide whether he was grateful for that or not.

<> 

It was a long half hour before he heard it again.  Lower this time.  Weaker.

Mournful as a mangy cur.

As it had since they’d first heard it and identified for what it was, it grabbed at him and he let it.  By instinct he turned, staring long into the night as he breathed, as though trying to sort the location.  At first light, he told himself.

When it finally began to recede, he forced his shoulders to relax, returning his focus to the fire and his injured comrades.  Almost at once, his gaze fell to the stone where Aramis had set the surgical kit. 

It was gone, and Aramis was gone with it. 

“Athos!” he hissed.

Having finally been sleeping, Athos blinked his eyes open into the empty space where Aramis had been and cursed, jarring d’Artagnan from sleep as well. The both of them fumbling to sit up.

“ _Devilish bastard_ ,” grunted Porthos, clutching his flintlock and blade and rising to his feet.  “Stop. Both of you.  If either of you could hobble a fraction, I’d be impressed. I’ll get him.”

“Porthos,” warned Athos.

“I know.  I know.  You, stay with d’Artagnan. I’ll bring him back.”

<> 

The hillside from which the enemy had pressed their advantage was sloped and rocky.  Porthos tripped twice. Once crossing the shallow streambed dissecting the grassy incline, and once on the foot of an enemy soldier—dead with a dagger still protruding from his chest.

Dragging himself back to his feet, Porthos stopped and tried to listen, not daring to call out, lest he make himself a target for the one enemy soldier he knew was still out there.  Out there and likely panicking in the dark.

Abruptly, he was aided in his quest by a series of sounds. The moan they’d been hearing all night long rumbled up into the sky from somewhere to his left… followed by the sparking flash of pistol fire.

“Aramis!” he yelled— _making himself a target be damned_ —as he scrambled towards the noise.  “Aramis!”

Flintlock drawn, he rounded a towering crop of boulders and ground to a halt, seeing Aramis with his arms outstretched, surgical kit in one hand, clean roll of cloth in the other.  Several lengths in front of him, a man sat propped against a stone, aiming his empty weapon at Aramis’s head and mumbling incoherently.

“Stop, Porthos,” commanded Aramis.  “He’s already fired, and he missed.  He has nothing left with which to harm me—to harm either one of us.”

Porthos growled.  “Not for want of trying,” he hissed, while conceding a slight drop in his aim. “Besides, it’s Athos who’s going to kill you.”

“Not tonight,” said Aramis.  “No one else dies tonight.”  He took another step. The man before him began mumbling, digging his heels into the ground and pressing himself into the stone at his back.

“That isn’t Spanish,” noted Porthos.

“There remains more than one language in that empire, but he’ll understand it when spoken,” Aramis murmured in a steady voice, carefully closing the gap between them, both with gazes wary.

Porthos took a step with him, lowering his weapon a fraction further. “Slowly, Aramis. Slowly.”

Aramis nodded, keeping his gaze fixed.  “Estamos aquí para ayudarle.  Sólo queremos ayudarle. Le doy mi palabra.”

The man on the ground stared, blinking weakly.

Carefully, Aramis lowered himself to his knees, setting the surgery kit and cloth aside before showing the man his empty hands.  With the same precision, he gestured to the blood and blade in the man’s side and spread his hands again, as though waiting for permission.

The world seemed to hang on a string.  Their wounded enemy slid his gaze between them, empty weapon pointed, body stiff with resistance.  Holding, holding, and then abruptly, he slumped, letting his spent pistol fall from his fingers. The look in his eyes more surrender than concession.

Aramis wasted no time, darting his fingers in to undo buttons and peel back bloody cloth.

Porthos lowered his aim even further.  “What did you say to him?” he asked.

“That we are here to help,” Aramis answered simply.  “I need light, Porthos.  We need a fire.”

Watching with the same hesitant wariness that remained in the eyes of their enemy, Porthos conceded his own control over the situation and went to his knees to clear the nearby ground for flame.

<> 

“It was reckless, and stupid, and you’re damn lucky you didn’t get yourself killed.”

It was a wonder, Porthos thought, how ominous Athos could sound while using such a calm voice.

Aramis didn’t answer, stepping back from the cart after settling his patients and giving a nod to the Musketeer managing the reins.

The grey morning made Aramis’s bruises look darker, nearly black against his tired skin as he walked over to collect the reins of his own horse and pull himself gingerly into the saddle.  The Musketeer who’d been holding it for him patted him on the leg, then turned to seat himself in another cart—the one carrying d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan who, even laid out as he was, was watching them with the expression a child gets when trying to calculate how long his family might stay mad about something.

Athos stared down at him.  “Don’t get any ideas from this,” he said.

“Why are you yelling at me?  I didn’t even do anything,” d’Artagnan defended.  “I even agreed with you last night that he shouldn’t have risked it.”

Shaking his head as though surrounded by idiots, Athos looked away.

“You should ride with him,” Aramis said softly, bringing his horse round until he sat even to Athos’s knee.  “Ridding horseback is going to be hell on your injuries.”

“No more than any of ours.”

“Yes, more than any of ours,” Aramis insisted, but shrugged and shifted his reins as though to direct his horse away.

Athos stopped him, hand fisting in his sleeve.  “Aramis, I’m serious,” he said.  “I understand why you did it, but if you ever…”

“I know, Athos, I know… you’ll kick me so hard I’ll…” he trailed off, patting his hand to Athos’s fist.  “I know.”

Sitting back in his saddle, Athos let him go, and slowly the procession began to move, Aramis setting a careful pace near the carts in front of them.

“I don’t understand where his head goes sometimes,” Athos said, glancing at Porthos with lowered eyebrows.

“You know exactly where his head went last night,” refuted Porthos, watching Aramis trot closer to the carts.

From atop his horse next to Athos, Porthos watched the Spanish soldier’s eyes—the way they tracked Aramis with a mixture of confusion and curiosity—and he couldn’t help the small thud in his chest that made him feel… glad.

When he looked to the side, the subtle look of fondness on Athos’s face told him that he was not the only one observing.   And not the only one who found Aramis as remarkable as he was infuriating.

Then again, between the three of them, always had it been so.

<> 

tbc


	3. Scarecrows Dressed in the Latest Styles

**< ><><><><><><><><><><><><>**

_Scarecrows Dressed in the Latest Styles_

**< ><><><><><><><><><><><><>**

The boy.  The youth. The young man—whatever, younger than d’Artagnan anyway—careened away from the palace gate, kicking at the dirt and looking very close to beating his fists into the wall.

It was the third time they’d seen him that week. 

Watching from his parade position, Aramis sighed, rubbing absently at the merry drumming that had started up behind his eyebrows.  When that failed to quell it, he shoved his fingers upward, feeling the way his hair had turned hot in the sun.  As he did, Porthos’s hand landed on his shoulder, a bit too tight and steadying to be a simple sign of friendliness.

“You didn’t eat this morning, did you?” murmured Athos from Porthos’s other side.  Aramis didn’t even bother to look at him, grateful in a sense, that Porthos stood between them—lest Athos catch a better view of Aramis’s face as he didn’t answer.

“That’s the third time this week that he’s done that,” mumbled Porthos.

Aramis frowned.  “I was with d’Artagnan,” he defended, inadvertently confirming the quality of Athos’s glare. “He’s still recovering from the fever.”  Aramis stopped then, letting his voice trail off as his eyebrows wrinkled.

Porthos wasn’t looking at him.  A hazy moment passed as Aramis tracked Porthos’s gaze back to the youth across the way—the youth who was now slumped dejectedly against the wall he’d seemed so intent on beating to death, spritely hair sticking up at odd angles.

“You led me to believe d’Artagnan was improved enough that you would let Bastien look after him,” accused Athos, pushing them along their previous vein.

The image of the youth against the wall lost its sway as Aramis glanced sideways. “I told you he was improved enough that Bastien _could_ look after him. Bastien has learned much in the way of simple doctoring.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched Athos’s eyebrow twitch. “Which has nothing to do with my point, though was a fine attempt at deflection.”

Running his fingers once more through the dark heat of his hair, Aramis gave in and turned his head, breaking formation completely, and trying to confirm to his weary brain the belief that Athos was half teasing—in his rare, dry way—and therefore was only halfway along the path to being truly annoyed with him.

“He’s been trying to see the king, I suppose,” mused Porthos from between them, his voice sounding distant and brackish.

Aramis scrubbed at his forehead more gruffly and exchanged an entirely different look with Athos than the one he’d been expecting to. 

Collectively, they focused on Porthos.  “There are few other reasons a young man such as him would show up at the gate day after day,” Aramis agreed after a moment, the corners of his eyes wrinkling ever so slightly as he took in Porthos’s furrowed brow.

“And the Guard… they won’t grant him an audience,” Porthos continued, still not looking at them.  “They won’t even let him by.”

Aramis shrugged.  “Not for want of the boy trying.  Though it does appear that the Red Guard have no intention of letting him through regardless of his determination.”

Still staring, Porthos took a step forward.

“You’re going to talk to him?” concluded Aramis, shuffling with him—less a question, more a statement of fact.

“I am.”

“Porthos.”

Abruptly, Porthos looked at him, the distance that’d been in his gaze narrowing to something familiar and fond.  With a closed-mouth smile, Porthos grabbed him, firm hands closing around his biceps. “You later,” he said, and shifted, turning and handing him off to Athos who accepted him with a hand above his elbow, firm but sedate, as though he’d been given a fine wine to handle.

Aramis sighed dramatically, accepting the defeat and the manhandling as Porthos moved across the way.

The boy straightened himself fastidiously at the approach, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.  Porthos kept his face gentle, expression unguarded but nobly serious as they spoke.   The sense of import in his demeanor broken only by the occasional flashing of his brilliant smile.

Aramis watched, feeling an odd, protective wariness under his skin, despite that the boy was thin as a rake and could truly garner no threat.

A breeze fluttered up, sending stray leaves skittering down the street. Athos let go of his arm and moved to stand at his shoulder, all pretense and play from their earlier back-and-forth gone from his body language.  “You look worried.”

“He’ll want to help,” responded Aramis.  “The exact reason behind the boy’s being here won’t matter. Porthos will want to help him anyway.”

“And if he does?”  Athos paused. “He’s not always as poor a judge of character as you make him out to be.”

Aramis smiled fragilely at the old joke.  “Not always, no,” he agreed, watching as Porthos flashed the youth another grin.  “Quite the opposite sometimes.  But you know as well as I that when taken upon his shoulders, Porthos cannot not abide injustice, and not all injustice can be righted, even by a Musketeer.”

The ache in his head flared as he finished, and he scrubbed at it brutally, thinking of what he’d left out of that statement—how he hated watching the small, distancing spirals Porthos could spin himself into when something he’d put his heart behind was vanquished.  His faith in humanity and hope dimming while he lost himself temporarily to a headspace Aramis could spend days willing his God to reach.

“You’re right,” said Athos gently.  “But we take our victories over injustice where we can, and he’s known more of it than most.”

With his throat tightening faintly, Aramis tugged a hand through his hair, pulling slightly at the roots.   Somewhere in the slug of thoughts under his skull, was the vague realization that a good half of this strange emotion might be coming from the fatigue of days tending d’Artagnan—an internal mirror to the rings under Athos’s eyes.

Still, glancing at Porthos’s across the way, he persisted.  “It is not always a good thing for him to get involved. He ends up taking too much onto himself, and refuses defeat.  You know how he can be.”

Athos stayed still, letting a beat of silence shimmy past them before his eyes ticked to the left.  “Hypocrisy, thy name is Aramis.”

<>

“Albert Thiers.”  The young man shook their hands uncertainly, then fumbled awkwardly as he tried to settle inconspicuously at their table.  Despite his sober and serious demeanor, his eyes kept darting in a manic sort of way towards the seated Red Guards in the center of the tavern, as though they were the very same who kept turning him away at the king’s gate.

Ignoring them, Porthos pushed a plate of food in Albert’s direction, then turned and did the same for Aramis, winking lightheartedly at Athos’s approving look.

Aramis waved away the jovial hand Porthos teased at him, then drew the plate close. Ignoring Athos’s temporary satisfaction, he lifted his fork, intent on eating enough to shake his leader’s commanding stare from his shoulders for a time. And perhaps, enough to shake his unsettled mood.

“Tell them,” said Porthos, tilting back towards Albert.

The youth swallowed his bite of chicken, then cleared his throat. “I was sent to Paris, commissioned by the magistrate in a small province within Gévaudan,” he explained.   “Months ago, the whole of our province was set upon by bandits whose only purpose seems to be the desire to burn our fields to the ground.  We sent messages repeatedly to Paris, all of which were ignored.  Finally, a missive came—an invitation to send a representative to explain the situation at court.”

Aramis perked up at this, glancing at Porthos.  “If we could provide enough proof for an investigation, surely Treville would authorize a journey south, named in the king’s interest?” There was something in the idea as he spoke it that appealed to his bones, something about violence they could keep in their control and away from the condemnation of politics.

“Musketeers would not be turned away.  Not by us, I assure you,” continued Albert.  “We’d be most grateful.  But of truth, it is the levies where I must convince the king to intervene. We are subject currently to Languedoc. And without the king’s appeal… without an abatement of our monitory duty, for a time… Already the whole of our province struggles, as has been the case for years.  The wars did our region no good deeds.  And now, the taxes…” he trailed off, then leaned forward in earnest.  “I can convince the king it is in the best interests of the crown.  I’m certain.  But my journey is of no use if I am not allowed to see him.”

“You said you had an invitation?” queried Porthos.

Albert nodded, gentling a turn of fine paper out of his carrying pouch and setting it on the table.  The seal of the royal house was emblazoned across the fold.  “The invitation is here.  I’ve taken all the care for it I could.  Even so, now that I have arrived, I am unwelcome, and my letter, unrecognized.”

Porthos gazed towards the Red Guard, eyes darkening in an expression Aramis knew all too well.  “Perhaps I ought to have a few words with our fellow soldiers,” he said.

Lowering his fork, Aramis stared at Athos, pointedly lifting his eyebrows.

Sliding his gaze sideways, Athos pressed his palm to Porthos’s forearm. “It will do no good,” he said frankly, halfheartedly trying to intervene.

“Like reasoning with stones,” added Aramis.  “The Red Guard will not hear you.  Nor any of us.”

Shrugging and rising to his full height, Porthos just shook his head, arms flexing as he lit the room with his brilliant and dangerous grin. “Won’t know until we try now will we?” he said.

<>

“Hold still,” Aramis commanded, keeping Porthos’s wrist in his grip as he touched a clean cloth to the stitches he’d already set, clearing away the blood as his own pulse thudded through his forehead. 

He breathed and adjusted his hold.  Finding the comforting and persistent thrum of Porthos’s own life beat asserting itself beneath his fingers.

He sniffed and set the needle to work again.  “The glass didn’t quite make it into the muscle, but you’re going to feel some discomfort whilst handling your sword for a while.”

“It was worth it,” said Porthos, expression halfway between a growl and a grin. Aramis felt a warm pull on his sternum—a strange mixture of worry, pride, and amusement—and couldn’t quite stop his own smile.  It had been one hell of a fight.  Fairly one-sided too, all said.  Spectacular in such a way that it was going to be difficult to stop retellings of it from reaching the wrong ears.

Porthos gave him a sidelong glance, as though trying to figure out what he was thinking.

“Worth it until the cardinal or Treville hear about this,” murmured Athos from where he sat, drooped in a chair at the end of d’Artagnan’s bed, with a cold, wet cloth held over one eye.

“Technically, they started it,” defended Aramis, as though he didn’t know Porthos had been intending to pick a fight with them from the moment he’d gone over to their table.  Or that he, himself, hadn’t been against the idea from the beginning.  Setting another stitch in Porthos’s arm, he tipped his head at Athos.  “Though it was spectacularly helped along by the way you threw that bottle.”

Porthos grunted at Aramis’s needle as Athos issued a rare laugh.

“How many of them were there again?” asked d’Artagnan, sitting upright on his cleaned sheets, looking nearly as washed-out as they were.

In the corner, Albert blinked out of his slightly awed silence, as though this question had been his cue.  “I counted nine.  But that was before the remainder of the tavern's patronage became involved.”  He ran a hand through his hair shakily.  “And I feel I must… I must beg your pardon.  I didn’t… I never meant to cause such trouble.”

“Oy, you didn’t,” Porthos said, turning around in his chair, suddenly serious. “Spot of trouble is sometimes good for a man.  Besides, they came out the worst, and they deserved it.  Arrogant, narrow-minded fools.”

D’Artagnan lifted his eyebrows at Porthos’s tirade.

“When he asked them why they wouldn’t let Albert through, the guards told Porthos they weren’t in the habit of allowing vagabonds to appear before royalty,” Athos explained.  “Porthos rather took exception to that.”

“Though it wasn’t until they’d disparaged the whole of young Monsieur Thiers’ family that the fight got truly interesting,” Aramis added, tying off the last stitch. 

D’Artagnan chuckled.

Finally, Aramis let go of Porthos’s wrist.  “Be careful with it for a while.  Please,” he admonished, and hated how seriously and gruffly his voice emerged in the midst of the light conversation.

Nodding absently, Porthos got a calculated look on his face. Standing, he eyed Albert up and down with a frown.  “Vagabond,” he muttered darkly.  “At least now we know what the trouble is.”

Albert blanched slightly and glanced self-consciously down at his rumpled and bedraggled appearance.  “I know,” he said miserably.  “We of even minor nobility understand the role of dress standards in Parisian court life, let alone before the king, but such has been the strife in our community… and with my travels… I’m afraid…”

“We understand,” said Porthos, waving him gently to silence. “Trust me, we do. I was not making a slight against you.” He turned to Aramis then, as though sizing him up.  “You’ve that shirt with the ruffled collar?” he asked.

Aramis balked, glancing over at the boy.  “It won’t fit him.  Besides, Athos is thinner than I.”

“No, he isn’t,” refuted Porthos.

“Yes, he…”

“D’Artagnan,” interjected Athos.  “Thinner than both of us.”

As though as one, they turned in d’Artagnan’s direction.

He frowned in response.  “I think we can all agree—none of my shirts are particularly fine.”

Athos took the cloth down from his eye.  “Now _that_ is not particularly true.”

Aramis grinned.  “Constance sewed you one for the king’s birthday celebration.  Latest style, she called it—perfect stitching on the collar. If I remember right, even the cardinal paid it a compliment.”

“A rather underhanded one,” scowled d’Artagnan.

“That shirt and your non-uniform leathers ought to do the trick,” said Porthos. He stared steadily, and d’Artagnan quickly caved. 

“Of course,” he agreed, glancing at Albert.  “Of course.  Aramis knows where they are.”

“I’ll fetch them,” said Aramis, rising to do exactly that. “And a hat.  No self-respecting gentleman arrives at court without a hat.”

D’Artagnan’s head dipped as he glanced at Aramis wryly.

“You think that will be enough to work?” Athos asked Porthos.

Porthos just grinned.  “Leave the rest to me.”

<>

“Amazing,” said Athos, as Albert turned around before them, hair neatly in place.

Porthos smiled wide, laughing and nodding with satisfaction. In addition to the clothing and the hair, he’d managed to secure a fine pair of boots, and a delicately worked baldric holstering a gentleman’s sword.  “I’ll wager they don’t even recognize him.”

“Which may, actually, be for the best,” said Aramis.

D’Artagnan stepped forward, presenting the object in his hands with a flourished bow Aramis thought he probably wasn’t well enough to perform. “And, of course, the hat.” He rose slowly, Athos reaching out to steady him.

Albert fidgeted, then took care to position the hat so it wouldn’t ruin the set of his hair.  “Well?”

“As fine a gentleman as I’ve ever seen,” approved Porthos, stepping close and laying an arm across his shoulders.  “Now remember, Aramis and I are on protection detail for the queen, but if you run into trouble outside the gate, Athos and d’Artagnan will be there.

“Of course,” said Albert, clutching his hand to Porthos’s forearm. “How can I ever thank you?”

“Wait to see if it works first,” reminded Porthos.

<>

And of course, it did work.  Standing in the palace hall, Aramis and Porthos watched as the well-spoken young man made a fine and convincing appeal before the king. Richelieu nodding along attentively and showing as much respect as he seemed to show anyone.

A fine sight, and a more satisfactory one than Aramis had seen in a while.

“You know,” Porthos mumbled softly, without breaking the parade stance they’d been maintaining near the doors.  “Call it my imagination, but I can’t help but think you’ve been less than thrilled with all this the last few days.”

Perceptive Porthos.  Always so perceptive.

Aramis shook his head, and felt a genuine smile rise to his lips. “Rubbish,” he intoned, doing his best to mark Porthos’s own inflection of the word, though with softer grace in deference to their surroundings. 

Porthos huffed slightly in amusement, but Aramis felt the pause, the waiting.

“Forgive me, Porthos,” he finally said seriously. “There’ve been so many close things for us lately.  For all of us. I think I did not want you to take on one more battle where we could not know the outcome. Particularly when it had the potential to involve the cardinal and his men.”

“You worry about me,” teased Porthos under his breath. “I’m flattered.”

“As, of course, you should be,” Aramis teased back, straightening his chin.

“This one was worth it though, wasn’t it?” remarked Porthos, voice steady in a way that made Aramis’s heart constrict.  “The cardinal may come at us for it if he finds it tied to the brawl with his men, but if not, he’d have just found another reason. It’ll always be something, won’t it? But we’re still Musketeers. This is part of our code, isn't it?”

Across the room, young Albert smiled, bowing with precision as the details of his community’s needs and the plans to resolve them began to take shape.

“Yes, it was worth it,” said Aramis, and took a breath.  “For all of us, I think.  We are, indeed, Musketeers.” 

_You, my brother, above all._

<> 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was challenging for some reason. Don't know if I got the tone I was going for. Hopefully it works.


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